


and then there was light

by angrylizardjacket (ephemeralstar)



Series: I'm Gonna Have Myself A Real Good Time [5]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018)
Genre: Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, Fluff, Tour Bus, part 3 on is quite angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 07:11:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17239757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralstar/pseuds/angrylizardjacket
Summary: You’re a roadie and lighting assistant for Queen’s first US tour, a bit of an overachiever at your job, despite the terrible pay. It’s all worth it to spend time with the band, and when you find the lunch break you’re working through interrupted by Roger Taylor, that worth increases tenfold. Except he’s a womanizing rock star and you’re the roadie who’s secretly sleeping in the equipment bus to avoid paying for hotel rooms, but the heart wants what it wants. At least you and Freddie get along.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christ. This is 100% based on the fictionalised version of Roger Taylor played by Ben Hardy. This fic is so self gratuitous it’s a bit shameful (reference, I’m an actual roadie and lighting assistant, but on a much smaller scale, obvs.).

The tour bus was hot and stale, and if it wasn’t for the window up the back, you’re pretty sure you’d have suffocated by now, crammed up the back of the equipment bus, wedged in behind three amps, a drum kit, and a road case full of lights. As it was, you were struggling to keep your knee from leaning against the snare drum, a task especially difficult when you’ve got a parcan wedged between your legs, and a box of gels balancing atop your knees. It’s uncomfortable, but life on tour is just like that, and you wouldn’t complain even if you’d wanted to.

You’re part of EMI’s usual tour crew, having gone around the States with Bowie for his last tour, but now you found yourself promoted to Lighting Assistant for  _Queen_ , and though the pay didn’t greatly increase, at least you could delude yourself with the title. As it was, you were already only sneaking food from the band’s catering, and the Production Manager hadn’t noticed that you were sleeping at the back of the bus, so at least you weren’t hemorrhaging money on the trip. You  _could_ look for a better, more stable job, but where was the fun in that?

Queen was, in a word,  _incredible_. Their passion and talent was breathtaking to watch, and they respected your work enough to leave you and the rest of the crew to their jobs, or perhaps they were just lazy. You’d never really spoken to any of them, though they smile kind enough at you as you run their cables while they set up their instruments.

“You should move.” A voice calls from the drum riser, in front of which you are sitting, legs crossed as you cut gels for the drum lights themselves. After a moment to process what had been said, you look around at the bits of plastic littered around you.

“No thanks.” You call back, not even bothering to look at who had addressed you in the first time, going back to your task.

“Suit yourself.” The voice called back, and after a moment of silence, the bass drum kicked in, following by a heart-thumping tom-and-high-hat rhythm. The thumping beat kept in time with your now racing heart, both out of a little nervousness and exhilaration at the sudden realisation that you had back chatted Roger Taylor, or someone who was going to be severely injured if Roger caught them on his drums. To your credit, you barely flinched, making yourself relax as the beat knocked your heart about your ribs.

It didn’t take you long to recognise the beat, and you found yourself bopping along while it lasted. You weren’t sure what he was doing back here, the rest of the crew was on break, but you had been left to get the last of the lights ready for that night’s show. As the stringless version of  _Modern Times Rock ‘N’ Roll_  came to an end, you were left in silence, broken only by the creek of the frames you were putting the gels into. Roger had pulled out a cigarette and a box of matches when you turned to look up at him from your spot on the stage.

“I wrote that one, ya know.” He mused, leaning down and reaching through the hardware of the drum kit to offer you one. You accepted without really thinking, moving from muscle memory as he lit his cigarette and held the still burning match out for you.

“‘s a bit different from some of the newer stuff.” You said, the statement neither positive nor negative, just a thought you allowed into the universe. Looking away from him, you inhaled deeply, cigarette held loose between your lips as you wrestled the frames into the parcans exhaling the smoke from your nose as you moved the first into position in front of the drums themselves.

“Careful.” Roger warned, and when you looked up to glare at him, you saw him watching you intently. Biting back a sarcastic retort, you moved your hand to your lips, taking a long drag on your cigarette, not breaking eye contact as you stubbed it out on the shifter by your ankles. You put the remainder behind your ear as you breathed out the lungful of smoke.

“Of course, Roger.” You conceded, “ _accidentally_ ” knocking the parcan against the edge of the drum, to which he squawked in protest, but the sight of your mischievous grin had him smiling despite himself.

It keeps happening, like a ritual, the day you land in whatever town they were performing in, you worked through lunch, not that you didn’t take lunch later, it’s just that you enjoyed being alone on the stage in the theatre. He’d always end up tapping out a few songs, perhaps something he was trying to write and was musing over, it was different every time, as was whatever task you were up to. Usually the two of you share a cigarette or two, and Roger’s stopped hiding the way he leers at you whenever you’re working, though you’re pretty sure he’s taking the piss, since you’re sure you look grubby and sweaty, with a roll of gaff tape pushed up to your bicep for easy access.

You’ve actually really started looking forward to it, and he’s stopped complaining when you ask him to stand on stage so you could focus your lights. The way you two chat turns to easy banter, a little cruel side of teasing, but neither of you really took it to heart, in fact, he genuinely seemed to enjoy your company, and you his.

But the thing is, you  _knew_ about Roger Taylor and his reputation, had seen it from the window of the equipment bus which doubled as your secret bedroom, of girls aggressively and conventionally attractive, hanging around him like flies. It grates on you in a way you hadn’t expected, and after a while you realised that perhaps your hero-crush on his music may have turned to something more.

The day the rest of the band tags along, it’s a particularly hot day, you’re at the top of a ladder with a profile light in hand, cigarette glowing where it was held in your lips, wearing a set of cut off overalls and a sports bra with you steel-capped boots.

“Lighting Wench?” Roger calls, as you fasten the security chain for the light.

“Aye, Captain Dickhead?” You respond without even thinking.

“I like her.” A new voice comments, and from your vantage point, you see the rest of the band looking up at you, Brian wearing a shit-eating grin as Roger scowled.

“We’d been wondering where dear Roger had been squirrelling himself away all this time.” Freddie beamed up at you, which caused you to flush, more from being addressed by  _Freddie Mercury_ himself, than anything else.

“I come here to work on songs, she just happens to be here.” Roger huffed, retreating to sit on the drum risers.

“Tha’s good work ethic.” John grinned up at you, to which you smiled back. After a beat, of sudden panic facing all of Queen at once in an informal setting, you had found your voice again.

“Since you’re all here, could I get someone in centre so I can focus this spot?” You asked, breathing in a lungful of smoke and smiling to yourself as Freddie stepped forward without hesitation, the others drifting off to find their instruments. You connected the power cord, which had already been turned on at the wall, which was blatantly bad conduct, but the ladder was tall and you didn’t enjoy climbing up and down it in the heat.

“You’re so much more cooperative than Rog,” you muse on the exhale, and Freddie turns and gives you a wink, despite the fact that he’s looking directly into the light.

“Of course, darling, I’m used to the spotlight.” He said casually, ignoring the rest of the band’s snorts and Roger flipping him off. After a beat, his eyes brightened, and not just from the correctly focused light. “ _Spotlight_.” He mused, pointing up at you. “It’s perfect, darling, you’re Spotlight now.”

“My name’s Y/N.” You spluttered, hands moving automatically to adjust the light until it was perfect, but Freddie shook his head.

“I know,” the brief phrase took you back a little, but he didn’t give you time to process it, “but you’re  _Spotlight_ now.” He sounded like he had made his mind up, and the others laughed good naturedly. After double checking the rough focus, you climbed back down the ladder. “The Light Bringer.” Freddie mused to the empty auditorium, which was only punctuated by you turning off the light at the powerpoint, leaving him in the glow of the house lights.

“I prefer Lighting Wench.” Roger called, from his seat at the drums, grinning as you flipped him off without even looking at him.

“Why don’t we see you at the after parties, you should be there?” John asked, and you suddenly went very quiet, though Brian answered for you.

“Bump out, mate. Packing up all this shit.” He gestured around, and you nodded, avoiding eye contact as you made a break for the door.

“Spotlight,” it’s Freddie’s voice, surprisingly serious, that makes you turn back, “you will be there tonight though, won’t you?” He asked, the others all giving you hopeful smiles, bar Roger who was squinting at you. You smiled weakly, your whole mind hating you for denying  _Queen_  of all people.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.” You told them, and left.

They had an  _actual_ rest day the next day, even the band was staying in a hotel rather than their tour bus. The benefits of a real hotel was an actual breakfast, an all you can eat buffet. You hadn’t had breakfast since the tour started, and you didn’t think any of the boys would be awake to call you out on it; the perfect crime.

Except you woke up late, cutting it real close when you arrived at eleven. As you were piling your plate with hashbrowns, you felt someone pinch your ass, and in the next moment, an incredibly hung-over Roger found himself with a face full of continental breakfast buffet.

“What the fuck?” He yelped, stepping back and grumbling. “I’m still drunk, don’t be a-”

“Careful with what you’re about to say, Roger.” You warned, face furious,not even slightly tempted to laugh at the way your breakfast was sticking to his face in places. “What in the hell gives you the right to touch me like that?”

“‘m still drunk?” He tried again, now actually pouting, wiping food from his face, “I  _just_ showered.” 

“You’re hungover, Roger, and it’s not an excuse.” After more of your glaring, Roger frowned, nose wrinkling.

“I’m… sorry?” The apology sounded more like a question, but it also sounded as though he never said the words before, so you accepted it with a deep sigh. “Why are you here? If you’re staying in the hotel you could’ve at least come to the afterparty, get a good sleep in the next day.” Suddenly nervous once more you step back, facing away from him to load your now empty plate with more food.

“Honestly? I’m just getting breakfast using the band’s good name.” Laughing humorlessly, you thought you could placate him with a small truth to hide the bigger lie.

“This your work, Spotlight?” John asked, flicking a speck of food off of Roger’s nose, stepping into the conversation, and past him to join you at the food. “Good on ya’.” He grinned good-naturedly at you, before inviting you to join him and the other boys for breakfast, which you accepted, trying your hardest to ignore Roger’s pissy look.

Despite the altercation, things aren’t strained between you and Roger, and though the other boys are more likely to join you in your pre-show set-up and chill, the ritual continues. It’s easy and familiar by now, almost a month into the tour, and most of the sting has left your banter, you’re just  _friends_ now, actual, honest-to-god friends.

It’s nearing the peak of Summer, and more often than not he’s wearing shorts and an open patterned shirt, while you’ve taken to sporting a pair of shorts of your own, and a sports bra, along with your trusty steel-caps. Usually the two of you, and anyone else who’s around for the last ten minutes of the break you share, end up lying side by side on the stage, fan on, sharing a smoke.

“I’m thinking of asking to put up-lighting in front of the risers,” you mused, staring up at the lighting rig, “but with the haze, it might block you out.”

“Freddie’ll take ‘em out with all his jumping around on the first night and you know it.” Roger half laughs, his words spoken through an exhale of smoke. He can already sense your incredulous look and he smiled. “And no light can outshine me, love.” He said, by way of explanation, turning his head to look at you.

“Not even a  _spotlight_?” You teased, looking back at him. It hits you very suddenly how close the two of you are, practically nose to nose. His grin fades as the proximity becomes apparent to him, his eyes focusing in on your lips.

“Rog?” Your voice is so small that only he can hear it, eyes wide, heart thumping with anticipation as he props himself up on his side, leaning down to kiss you instead of answering. He’s more insitent than you had pictured, not that you were complaining, kiss becoming messier by the moment as you reached up to thread your fingers through his hair. Free hand ghosting along your side, he let himself be pulled closer until there was no space between the two of your on this Summer afternoon on the stage of an empty theatre, both of you warm, slick with sweat from the afternoon heat, hearts hammering to a tune you could both feel in your soul.

With his free hand holding your upper thigh, he moves it so your leg bends gently, your knee coming to rest at his lower back, and breaks the kiss for the moment, moving instead to suck a rough, dark hickey into your neck, teeth grazing at the edges, to which you muffled a slight moan with a whimper, fingers tightening in his hair. You could feel him smirk against your throat, before he pulled away to look you in the eyes, to take in your barely debauched state, kiss swollen lips.

“Oh bravo, darlings!” Freddie’s voice rang out, along with his applause, and you and Roger scrambled away from each other. “Don’t worry, it’s just me,” Freddie’s expression was not unkind as he moved past them to the front of the stage, “and your adoring fans!” He laughed openly, gesturing to the empty auditorium.

“Don’t be a fucking perv, Fred.” Roger spat, blushing a hilarious shade of red as he took a drag on the cigarette that had remained between his fingers.

“Takes one to know one, Roger,” Freddie brushed him off, instead smiling kindly at you, “quiet the voyeur, isn’t he?” He joked, but the lazy, sensuousness of the afternoon was quickly disappearing; you felt  _dirty_ , like every piece grime in the theatre was sticking to the sweat on your skin.

“ _Piss off,_ Fred.” Roger spat out through gritted teeth, stubbing out his cigarette on the floor.

“Break’s almost over.” You said, voice flat as you got to your feet, and turning away quickly, cheeks heated with shade at being caught in such a compromising position. “Thanks for the reminder.” The smile she gave Freddie didn’t reach her eyes.

“I like her.” Freddie mused after the door shut behind you. “What about you?” He turned, smiling as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Roger blinked a few times, the rage clearing from his expression, morphing into confusion, and then back to anger.

“What?!”

“Spotlight’s not like your usual sex-bunnies.” Freddie sat beside Roger, despite the boy’s history of violent outbursts, fingers steepling as he rested his elbows on his knees.

“‘Course not; she’s our roadie, I can’t just leave her in whatever town I picked her up in like the others.” Roger conceded after a beat, and Freddie felt himself repressing the urge to cuff the blonde about the ears.

“Do you  _want_ to leave her in a town?” Freddie asked slowly, and Roger told him ‘no’, finally simmering down. “Well, do you want to shag her and never speak to her again, except for  _more_  shagging?” Freddie asked, in that same, level tone as the first question. It was when Roger answered with ‘mostly not’ that Freddie realised he was probably going to have to spell Roger’s own feelings out to him.

You take the next three tour stops to figure yourself out, taking lunch breaks at usual times instead of hanging around the empty theatre, giving Roger only the politest of smiles in passing. At first, you weren’t sure what to make of what happened, feeling dirty for being caught, angry at yourself for being so caught up in the boy you had feelings for but-

Except that  _he_  had kissed  _you_ , in the middle of the day, sober. He still finds himself on the empty stage on a lunchtime, Brian’s told you, has tried to seem casual when asking some of the other roadies of you’re doing okay. These, you figure, aren’t really the actions of a man who has  _zero_  feelings for you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you around here.” Roger is spinning idly on his stool, shoes off, drumsticks resting on his snare drum.

“I’m doin’ my job.” You respond, but there’s no malice behind it. With practiced ease you start taping down cords, shoving them underneath the drum riser to keep them hidden, the silence only broken by the loud ripping of gaff tape.

“Come to the afterparty.” It’s not an order, you know you could say no if you’d like to, but something about the way he asks means you don’t want to say no to him.

“Why?” You hear yourself ask, and his mouth twists in a half-smile.

“I like having you around.” He admitted, and despite the sweet gesture, you couldn’t help the next words that bubble from you.

“I’ve seen the kind of girls you like having around, Rog, I ain’t one of them.” The words are punctuated by a humorless laugh and the rip of another strip of tape. You’re both quiet for a long moment.

“That's  _clearly_ not true!” He came back with, sounding endlessly frustrated. With a groan, he flops forward, his forehead against his drum.

“Okay.” You stood, squaring your shoulders. He looks up at that, confused. “I’ll go.” Your mind’s already running through possible ways to get into the equipment bus after it was all locked up, but trying not to worry too much.

Roger’s expression brightened and when you offered him a smoke from where you had it fucked behind your ear, he grinned.

The afterparty itself was loud and dingy, the little local pub already seemingly at capacity when you arrived, having changed from your theatre blacks to something a little cleaner, though still mostly black.

“Spotlight!” Freddie crows through the crowd when he sees you, echoed by the rest of the bandmates and a few groupies. When you get to them, you see Freddie’s standing on a leather armchair, part of the seating set the boys had claimed, brightly dressed men and women alike cramming themselves into any free space that would get them closer to the band.

“So glad you could make it!” Freddie beamed, pulling you through crowd when you were within arm’s reach, sitting himself onto the armchair and sitting you on his lap. “Everyone, this is Spotlight, she sets up our lights.” He spoke to the group as a whole, and before you could even get a word in edgewise, a drink was pressed into your hands, and Freddie had moved to seat you in the chair as he swanned away to talk to someone else.

It was overwhelming, the music -  _Queen,_ obviously - swelling from the jukebox, people dancing all around, laughing and talking, barely room enough to think let alone exist. And there, across from you, was Roger, in the corner of a sofa, one arm slung across the back of the seat, beer in his other hand, with a very pretty girl practically on top of him, her hand on his chest. They seemed to be having a  _very_ riveting conversation that you couldn’t hear, but was also very clearly about three seconds away from becoming something not appropriate for the very public setting.

Gritting your teeth, you looked at the drink you were handed, sniffed it, and downed it in one gulp. It was very sugary, but the syrup and juice wasn’t enough to hide the sting of tequila. Raising your glass in the air, you worked up the nerve to ask if anyone knew where the bar was, but the empty glass itself was enough to prompt someone in the mass of people behind you to to switch out yours with a full one.

Downing the second drink as quickly as the first, which earned a cheer from some of the surrounding people, you stood abruptly, letting the man who had been sitting on the arm of the chair to slide into your place, giving you a wink in the process. You grinned back at him, trying to push down your anxiety and hoping that the drinks would kick in soon. As soon as the thought occurred to you, someone had given you a third drink, though you sipped this one, pushing through the crowd letting yourself move to the music as you tried not to spill.

“You know Spotlight’s here, right?” You hear Brian call over to the music as you’re leaving the boys, and though you see Roger immediately start looking for you, you don’t turn back. You’re here now, and you’re going to enjoy it, pretty, blonde boys be damned. After a while, you think you’re buzzed enough to dance, finishing the last of… you’re not quite sure what number this one is, but the point is you’re ready to dance, it’s all you can think about, threading yourself into the pack on the dance floor, dancing with pretty girls and pretty boys alike, even with Freddie a few times.

Sometimes you think you see Roger through the crowd, and every time you do, you quickly find yourself searching for another drink, until you’re thoroughly plastered, and can’t even remember his name in your state.

“Where’r the rest?” You ask Freddie as the song dies down, the both of you sweaty, flushed and grinning, people around clambering to be near him.

“They claim they don’t dance.” You can hear the eyeroll in his words before you see it on his face, and you snort with laughter, leaning back, accidentally bumping someone, not that you care in your state.

“ _Boo_!” You groan, before covering your mouth, the next song picking up with a rolling drum beat, the grow moving in a frenzy to the sound. “Freds, Freddie, Mr Freddie Man, I gotta  _go_.” You mused, hands on his shoulders, eyes wide, suddenly very serious. Freddie gives you an amused look, clearly not as far gone as you. Turning, you move to make a beeline for the door, or as much of a beeline as you can in your state, before turning back. “This’s my fav’rite song.” You’re not sure whether he heard you, but Freddie’s sad smile lets you know he had.  _Modern Times Rock ‘N’ Roll_ fills your ears as you make your way to the exit, and you can’t help but bop along.

“Where are you going?” You’re half a block away from the club when you hear his voice call out to you. Turning, you see Roger leaning against the side of the building, half smiling, obviously also quite drunk.

“To break into bus,” you said, with all the seriousness you could muster, before you realised what you said and stood straight up, “I mean normal hotel sleep.” The words spill out quickly, but you don’t move.

“Come on, love,” he held out his hand taking even, measured steps towards you, “stay with me.” Taking a deep breath, you didn’t move, preferring to instead scowl at him, your inhibited mind trying to make sense of his motivations. “No funny business, I promise.” He assures,  expression actually fond, before it becomes panicked as you and your glare began to lean sideways, your balanced compromised by the alcohol. Surging forwards, he catches you before you hit the ground.

“What about the girl?” You asked as he brought you back to standing, his arm around your waist to support you as the pair of you started towards his hotel. Roger barked out a laugh.

“Which one?” He couldn’t help himself, and you shoved him off of you, promptly falling to the ground as he stumbled away. “Listen, I never asked any of them to be here; I asked you.” His words had made you grow quiet and contemplative, and you get him help you to your feet, the two of you walking in silence for the next few blocks.

“I sleep in the equipment bus, but that’s a secret.” You stage whispered to him as the lights of the hotel came into view, your mind having wandered a few blocks back.

“What? No you don’t.” Roger snorted, and you nodded very seriously.

“No, I do, after bump out, I sneak in and lay on the amps.” You paused, turning to face him. “It’s  _very_ uncomfortable.” You assured, and the drummer rolled his eyes, pulling out his room key as the two of you made your way through the front entrance.

“Just stay with me, love.” He offered, and you shook your head, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Wouldn’t want to cramp your style.” You hummed with a sad little smile, detaching yourself so you could lean on the wall of the elevator as it rose, head tipped back, eyes closed. Roger didn’t answer, but he was also pretty sure now wasn’t the time to argue his point. Instead, he played with his keys in the silence, and you looped your arm through his when the doors opened on his floor, marginally more capable of keeping yourself upright.

The room itself was small but rather fancy, though you only had eyes for the big, soft bed in the middle of the room. You’re restraining yourself, taking off your boots and your jacket, but you’re not coordinated enough to stay upright where you’re trying to take off your second boot at the end of the bed before you faceplant on the duvet. By the time you’ve recovered, taken off your boots and been to the bathroom, Roger’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and has face planted onto the bed himself, though that was on purpose. You clumsily got yourself a glass of water, sloshing half of it on the nightstand when you put down, though you’re not too concerned, and you let yourself land on the bed.

There’s literally no feeling better, you decide, than sinking into a comfortable bed after a big night out.

“Did you have a good night?” Roger’s voice comes muffled through his pillow.

“I had fun,” you said, considering the night as a whole, before moving to lie on your side facing away from him, “but no, not particularly.” You mused, yawning. After a beat, you heard a soft tapping on the duvet, and looked back to see Roger’s hand searching blindly for you as he remained with his face on the bed.

“Why not?” He asked, finally finding your hip, pulling you back, so he could shift to lie on his side and hold you close. He was warm, his arm slung over your hip, chest solid against your back. You found yourself leaning into it, moving your hand down to lace fingers with his where they were brushing your stomach.

“I wanted to spend it with you.” Voice small, you punctuated it with a yawn, sinking further into the bed, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. You drift off before he responds, his soft apology lost on you.

You’re the first to wake, sort of, you stand and make your way to the shower, but as your nausea subsides beneath the warm water, you manage to fall asleep sitting at the bottom, and wake to a banging at the door, and Roger asking if you’re okay.

“I don’t have a change of clothes.” You call through the door once you’re finished, and he offers you some of his, which you accept after some hesitation. When you exit the bathroom wearing a pair of his bright red shorts and an oversized t-shirt, he grins at you.

“How do you feel?” He smirks, and you grit your teeth, taking a deep breath that irritates the dryness of your throat.

“Like I’m dying.” You rasped back, and he laughed standing, moving to the bathroom, except he stops in front of you. “About what I said last night-” You begin, even though you can only remember blurry snippets, but he cuts you off with a laugh.

“Don’t worry about it, love.” A new intensity in his eyes as he leans forward to plant a kiss on your lips. After the brief shock had worn off, you leaned into it, heart fluttering as he wraps his arms around you, deepening the kiss.

“You still drunk?” You asked, nervous, but smiling slightly, he grins back at you, shaking his head and you meet his lips with yours, with enthusiasm this time. He walks the two of your back to the bed.

“What about you?” He asked, and you moved back a little with a strained smile.

“No, but I am pretty hung over.” You admitted, sitting on the bed, trying not to squint as the light from the gap in the curtain hit him. He laughs, but reaches over to the nightstand, passing you the water you had left there.

“No strenuous activities then?” He asked, eyebrows raised. You spluttered by way of denial, and he shrugged, stepping back to head into the shower. “Well I guess that can wait until next time.” He grinned. “Get rest, love.” He’s halfway into the bathroom when you call out.

“What do you mean,  _next time?!”_ You crowed, and he popped his head around the corner.

“You don’t think you’re still sleeping in the equipment van do you?” He asked, continuing to talk over your protest. “You can stay with me.”

“You  _don’t_ have to do that.” You called to the now closing door of the bathroom.

“I don’t  _have_ to do anything, I want to.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: lmao sorry if ur not takin prompts but if u r what about one where the boys™️ have just preformed and reader (who is a long time friend of the boys and esp rog) and is secretly dating roger but after the show reader is so proud of roger that she just forgets about the secrecy and snogs him in front of the guys and Mary and they’re all rlly surprised and shook but Fred’s like ‘lmao my kids are in love’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a few of these ideas are courtesy of the lovely and kind @roger-bang-the-drum, so thank you for your help. xx This goes a lot of places, and I hope you guys enjoy it as much as the first one. Feedback is always appreciated!!

There are moments, sometimes few and far between, when everything feels right in the world, and right now? The moment Roger steps out of the shower, towel hanging loose on his hips, and asks you what you want to drink as he opens the hotel’s mini-fridge, you’re letting yourself bask in it.

The sun is peaking through the curtains, which isn’t doing your headache any favours, but he hands you a bottle of water that’s probably expensive, and pulls out a Gatorade for himself. Flopping onto the bed beside you, still wearing just a towel, the drummer is quiet for a long time, basking in the easy silence of the late morning, and the sliver of sunlight that’s bouncing off his chest. You let your gaze linger, let it drift to admire him, pale and almost effortlessly attractive against the quilt.

“Like what you see,  _love?”_ And when you meet his gaze, he’s watching you, grinning smug and knowing. Embarrassed to be caught checking him out, you feel a flush creeping up your cheeks, turning away quickly. His laugh is warm in the morning air, nothing cruel or malicious about it, and when he gently moves to hold your cheek, shifting you to look back at him, his grin has shifted to something has your heart hammering against your ribs. “Come here.” Voice low and intimate, he pulls you into a kiss. 

It starts gentle, but becomes more insistent, your fingers ghosting over the bare skin of his chest as he pulled you closer, his hand on your hip tugging you closer, moving you until you’re straddling him. He’s got one hand in your hair and one on your ass, until it’s trailing up your back, beneath your shirt, nails scraping gently along your bare skin as your lips move down, trailing kisses from his jaw down his throat. 

With the room only growing warmer, you can feel your hangover headache pick up again, and move to kiss just below his ear.

“Put on some pants.” You murmur, and he lets out a breathy laugh, as you move back to laying beside him, watching as he retracts his hands to lay them on his chest, looking up at the ceiling for a long moment. 

“Tease.” His gaze slides to you, but there’s no malice in it, maybe a little disbelief, but you just raise your eyebrows at him and take a long sip of water, pretending like your pulse wasn’t racing, like hadn’t wanted to keep going just as much as he had.

“No strenuous movements!” Shrugging helplessly as you parroted his own words back at him, he shakes his head, but rifles through his things for a set of clothes. “For now.” You amended, and the devilish grin you sported was one he mirrored, and he stepped across the room to kiss you once more before making his way to the bathroom.

The moment, that golden, everything-was-right-with-the-world moment, it filled you with contentment from the tips of your toes as you finished off the bottle of water, and got out of bed, breezing around the room as you folded up your clothes from the night before.

And in an instant, the moment shattered.

“ _Room service_!” What sounded suspiciously like a man imitating a woman’s voice came ringing through the door, which only had you frowning.

“We didn’t order anything.” You reply, confused, opening the door without thinking, not hearing Roger in the bathroom saying your name as a warning. It was for good reason, as it turned out, as you find yourself faced with Freddie, Brian, and John, all looking bewilderingly back at you.

“Spotlight? What are you doing here? Where’s Rog?” Brian asks, and it’s John who responds, expression shifting from confusion to exasperation.

“ _Brian_.” He says, so pointed it almost hurt, and Brian’s face lit up with realisation.

“Oh!” And after a beat, the guitarist frowned at the implication. “ _Oh_.” And finally, he sighed deeply, resigned. “Oh.” And he pulled out his wallet, handing ten dollars to John, who suddenly looked like the cat who got the cream. You furrowed your brows at the exchange, squinting, feeling a little betrayed at it’s implications.

“Well are you going to invite us in?” Freddie asked, and it’s then that you notice him beaming. 

“No way, what do you all want?” Roger glowered at them the moment he stepped out of the bathroom fully dressed, buckling his belt. He hovered behind you, careful not to touch you.

“No, no, no.” You insisted, crossing your arms and glaring at the three of them. “What was that all about?” Your words were followed by a moment of silence, and the other three boys looking at you like they couldn’t quite believe what you’re asking. After a beat you hear yourself saying, “Do you really think so little of me?” And despite Roger’s actual scoff behind you, your gaze demanded an answer from the others. John at least had the decency to look a little ashamed as he passed Brian’s ten dollars back.

“We’re here to say that we’re leaving in a few hours, and came to see if you wanted breakfast.” And though his knowing smile had died down, part of you could tell he didn’t believe you for a second. He leaned in, almost conspiratorially, though his voice was loud enough that the others heard. “You know, wearing his clothes does hold some implications, darling.”

“I had a shower because I felt like I’d body surfed through a dumpster last night. But being incoherent is  _such_ a turn on, right?” The last bit  _dripped_ with sarcasm, and Freddie held up his hands defensively, taking an actual step back.

“No need to get bitchy, we’re just here for breakfast. You’re welcome to join.” And at his offer, you let your anger dissipate, uncrossing your arms. “We’re sorry if we offended you.” He added, and you smiled gently.

“Let me just put on some proper pants.” And with that, you close the door, leaning against it with your eyes closed, breathing in through your nose to steady yourself until you hear the other three leave. When you open your eyes, Roger is looking expectantly at you, and he does not look happy.

“What was that about?” He asked, and your expression fell as you stepped past him to grab your jeans. 

“I don’t want to seem like just some groupie, not to them, not to anyone on this tour.” You mused, not looking at him as you stripped off the shorts he’d given you, pulling on your own pants. He didn’t respond, but you knew he was waiting for you to elaborate. “This is my job, Roger, and I’m happy to try things out with you, God knows I’m looking forward to sleeping on a bed again, but if things go south, I don’t wanna look unprofessional, like I was abusing my position to get close to you.”

“And what do you think they’ll say about me?” He asked, crossing his arms. “Rock-star lures in crew member with promises of fame and fortune?” He scoffed, and you looked up at him, expression softening.

“They’re not going to say that, you’re a man, Rog, and you’ve already got a reputation. You can go on living your rock-star life after me.” You mused quietly, and Roger takes a deep breath, making himself relax before nodding.

“Fine, I get it. We keep implications to a minimum for a while.” He agreed. Once your pants were finally buckled, you stood, giving him a thankful smile, moving to kiss him gently. “You know they don’t see you as just a groupie.” He said, half-smiling as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“Good; I mean I  _am_ ,” you admitted with an amused smile, “but I don’t want them  _knowing_ that.” And he kisses you, warm, hands on your hips holding you steady, grounding you in the moment.

“We should get to breakfast.” He sounds like he  _really_ doesn’t want to leave, but you know the boys are already suspicious, and so the two of you head down to the dining area.

The moment you step back onto the equipment bus, there’s a sinking sensation in your chest, the discomfort practically crawling up your spine as you breathe in the stale air, and see the rest of the crew already sitting themselves in the most comfortable positions they could find.

“You’re not usually so late.” One of the sound guys frowns at you, and you clench your jaw, ignoring him and making your way to the back of the bus. You take your place, trying not to let the heat or the bumpy ride make you motion sick, resigned to the long trip to the next city.

Things have changed between you and Roger, obviously, the dynamic had shifted, and for the first two stops, neither of you were sure how to maneuver your usual breaks, especially since the other boys had been insistent on joining you. It exasperated you, clearly they didn’t believe that nothing had happened between you and Roger, but you kept professional, and kept conversation light.

The thing is, nothing really  _had_ happened between the two of you, not yet; after gigs, he would go to the afterparty, and you would be too exhausted from bump out to do more than make your way to his hotel room and crash on his bed. It’s nice to wake up next to him, his arm around you where he’s also crashed, almost fully dressed, but there was never enough time to enjoy it by the time you had to leave to get to the equipment bus before anyone got suspicious.

Except that they were, because you were usually the first one there -  _obviously, you’d been living there_ \- but now, if even one person arrived before you, people’s eyebrows would rise.

“ _We’ve blown a bulb in the drum risers!”_ Everything changes the night that you’re pretty sure you’re going to die. A bulb blows in one of the parcans beneath the drum risers, and the sound operator from his spot in the bio-box, is losing his goddamn mind. The stage manager tells you, and you’re just confused.

“We have spares but-” You’re cut short by the frantic stage manager feeding off of the sound operator’s panic.

“Where? How fast can you get to them?” He asks, and you take a deep breath, re-centering yourself in the chaos before answering that you can get to them in less than a minute, but you’re not sure what- “ _Can we go to black at the end of this song_?” The stage manager is speaking into their headset, and you feel adrenaline flooding your veins as you realised what you would have to do.

The space behind the drum risers is not a lot, and there’s even less beneath them; space enough to fit one person,  _maybe_. And yet here you were, spare parcan in your hands as  _Killer Queen_ comes to an end and the lights fade to black.

“Go! Go! Go!” You’re urged on stage, pushed by the stage manager, and you move as quickly as you can in the almost complete darkness, sitting yourself down behind the drum risers as the lights come up.

“What the fuck?” You hear Roger murmur to himself, unaware of you currently shifting to lay on your belly and wriggle beneath the about-to-be-active drummer. The rest of the band also confused, none of them having known what had happened, but they played it off well, Freddie laughing with the others about a technical difficulty before starting their next song.

You unplug the faulty light from the power board the moment the first bass drum beat kicks in, and you jump, whacking the back of your head on the drum riser, swearing loudly and profusely, though it was drowned out by the music. Pulling the light from it’s position as the drum beats set your teeth on edge, deafening you with every passing moment, you burn your hands on the still hot light. Gritting your teeth despite the tears welling in your eyes, you pull out the scalding gel in it’s frame from the parcan, shifting it into the spare. As the song died down, you moved the spare light into position, waiting for the lights on that level to die down so you could plug it back in, and have it come up naturally with the others. 

Heart in your throat, you can feel every movement of the drum risers above you, and you’ve never felt closer to death before; large burns on your already calloused hands, whole body being knocked around by the beat of the bass drum. Once you’ve finished you’re job, you pull the broken light from it’s position, and lay behind the drum risers in shock, staring up at the ceiling, tears in your eyes as the adrenaline has already started numbing your hands, and the music turns to white noise in your ears.

Roger catches sight of you at the tail end of the set list, and his eyes go wide, mid-song, but he can’t stop playing. Looking up weakly, you see the stage manager giving you the thumbs up, but clearly signalling for you to stay where you are, and you do, pressing your burning hands to your cheeks in an attempt to cool them down as the adrenaline slowly vanishes and you’re left with the realisation of what had happened.

The lighting designer and operator yells at the stage manager for a full fifteen minutes while you sit on a road case, still in shock after the gig.

“One light doesn’t fucking matter in that situation; she could have died! Look at her;  _look at her!”_ He hollers, and you realise vaguely that he’s talking about you. Looking up, the stage manager meets your blank, shocked gaze with a guilty one. “Get her to the fucking medical officer, that was  _so_ fucking irresponsible.” 

Once there’s cream and large bandaids on the burns on your hands, you make your way outside, having been given the night off as compensation, and almost immediately you’re swarmed by the band, asking what had happened.

Freddie calls you brave, calls you darling, kisses your forehead and brings the others in for a group hug.

“I don’t get paid enough for this.” You’re definitely still in shock as the laugh escapes you, but it makes the rest of them smile, and they offer to buy you drinks at the afterparty. You’re too dazed to say no. The others seem happy that you’re okay as you walk to the pub, but Roger trails behind the group, expression dark.

He keeps you close all night, always by your side though Freddie is also just as likely to be on your other side. The boys are true to their word, keeping your hands full of cool drinks all night, though you mostly sip them, pacing yourself to keep your balance as the night progressed.

“You seem really rattled, Rog,” John sits on your other side as you take a moment of peace at the bar.

“She was  _beneath_ my drums.” It’s the first time he’s said it all night, angry and a bit afraid. John’s expression fell and he nodded in understanding, wrapping an arm around you to give you a squeeze, and moving to clap Roger on the shoulder before moving on. 

When you suggest leaving, Roger agrees without hesitating, telling the others he would walk you back to your hotel room; they all gave him understanding smiles, knowing how much seeing you in pain and shock behind him, mid-show, had freaked him out.

The walk back to the hotel is quiet, his arm around your waist for the whole duration, though he still radiated an anger. 

“Are you okay?” You’re pulling off your shoes, sitting at the edge of the bed.

“Me? I-” the question seemed to bewilder him, and he frowned, still lost in his own thoughts, “I’m  _fine_ , you- are you okay?” He asked, and you smiled gently at him, still not having fully processed everything that had happened. “Who fucking let this happen?” He snapped, not at you, just bitter at the universe, now pacing.

“Roger.” You stood, reaching out to catch him by the shoulder, and he turned to you, anger melting away.

“You looked  _scared_ and  _hurt_. I  _know_ how loud I play, I can’t fucking imagine being trapped beneath that.” He admitted, quietly bitter. “I can’t  _believe_ they made you do that.”

“It’s my job.” Was all you could say in response, expression falling. “Sometimes I love it, sometimes I-” something catches in your throat, finally looking in his eyes, and you suddenly understand, and you scowl. “You shouldn’t have to worry about me, Roger, it’s how I make a living.” You snap, defensive, turning away to get changed into the pyjamas you’d thought to bring along when he checked in earlier in the day.

“If you think I’m not going to worry about you,” his hands are on your hips the moment you pull off your shirt, his voice a low growl in your ear, “you’re dead wrong.” A shiver runs through you, and he turns you around, pulling you close enough that he rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, bodies pressed together where you’re only wearing a bra and your jeans. 

Seeing the fear in your eyes when he had looked back had fucking  _terrified_ him, and he can’t get the image out of his mind. When he opens his eyes now, however, you’re looking up at him, pupils blown wide, smirk on your lips.

“Shut the fuck up, just tell me I’m good at my job-” You tease, but you don’t mind when he interrupts you with a kiss. All he wants to do is to hold you, be with you after everything that had happened; the realisation that his feelings for you ran a lot deeper than he thought began to shift to a primal need to show you what you mean to him in the best way he knew how.

“You’re incredible at your job, okay?” He murmurs, walking you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the bed and you sit back on it. “What you did tonight? Dedicated to a  _fucking fault,_ you know that right?” He’s making quick work of his own shirt as you slide further back onto the bed, grinning as he praises you. “At the top of a ladder, you’re the queen of the goddamn stage and  _you know it_ , don’t you?” He follows you onto the bed, leaning over you, seeing the equal parts pride and mischief in your eyes, splayed out and waiting beneath him on top of the duvet. Your grin morphs into a smirk, the only confirmation he gets before you’re pulling him into a heated kiss. 

When you wake the next morning, your burnt hands ache a little, but that’s nothing compared to the ease and contentment that you find yourself filled with. Roger’s got an arm slung over your hip, you can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing with his chest pressed against your back. You lace your fingers with his, feeling him give your hand a gentle squeeze in his sleep, and let yourself fall back to sleep.

Things get easier after that, between the two of you, easier and more comfortable. After everything that had happened, it seemed the other band members’ suspicions had died down, which you were thankful for, and it seemed like things almost went back to normal. 

You spend your breaks up ladders and shoving lights into the drum risers from the front, and you have a smoke with Roger as the break comes to an end, though now more often than not you’re using his stomach as a pillow. Freddie’s the only one who’s seen the change, you think, but he has the decency not to say anything.

The sex is pretty incredible; you’re given a few nights off from bump out after the incident had occurred, which you and Roger took full advantage of. Even after, you started to attend more of the afterparties, integrating yourself into the culture he was already so submerged in. 

Sometimes, you’d get there late, and there’d be girls hanging around like flies, and you’d have to beat your own rising jealousy with a stick, because once you arrived, still wearing theatre blacks, he’d have eyes for no-one else.

So maybe you got comfortable in the new, easy dynamic, been a little bit careless. 

“Lighting wench?” He calls, and you make a noise of discomfort in the back of your throat.

“You know I hate that.” You call to him from where you’re sitting against the drum risers, and ask him to retrieve the stack of gels from where they were resting on the edge of the stage. He does so without complaint, pulling out a cigarette and patting his pockets for a lighter. He doesn’t even need to turn and ask for you to pull the one from your pocket. 

Lighting the cigarette as you cut a new gel for the ones that had been burned through during the last show, you feel him put the lighter back in your pocket, and hear him take a long drag, leaning back. It’s a comfortable silence that spreads between you, and he’s offering you the cigarette after he takes a second draft. When you look up, he presses a quick kiss to your lips, more as a greeting than anything else, and you take the cigarette from him with a smile, passing him the stack of gels to hold while you worked. 

“Um, Y/N?” It’s the sound operator, and you look up suddenly, unsure of how long he’d been there. “I was told you’re the person to talk to if I want a cable run?” He asked, a little confused.

“It’s Spotlight.” Roger doesn’t look at the interloper, looks instead out to the empty audience. The sound operator doesn’t look less confused.

“I’m your gal!” You reply, smiling far brighter than you necessarily needed to, pointedly ignoring Roger. After being handed a cable for the weirdly positioned amps in this particular theatre, the sound designer leaves, giving an awkward smile to Roger, who’s been sitting, smoking, and crinkling a gel between his fingers while he waited.

“Thanks, uh- thanks Spotlight.” And with that, he leaves you and Roger to yourselves. Roger’s smiling to himself.

“Shut up, you barely call me Spotlight anymore.” You roll your eyes at him and begin to run the cord, listening as Roger mutters something about it being the principle of the thing, and moving to practice a song you didn’t recognise. 

From that moment on, there was a tension in the air, and it felt like everywhere you went, the other members of the crew were watching your every move. It made it difficult to steal from the band’s catering, but it made it substantially worse to try and have a private moment with Roger.

“How’d you get so close with the band?” The assistant stage manager actually chose to sit with you at the back of the equipment bus on one of the shorter journeys you would be taking.

“They started hanging around me, I sort of had no say in it.” You shrug as much as your pretzeled up position in the back allowed.

“But they like,  _really_ like you.” She grinned, eyes shining as she leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Like, Freddie gave you a nickname,  _Spotlight_.” She said, pointedly, and you shifted uncomfortably.

“Well, he saw me… doing my job.” You mused, unsure if your discomfort wasn’t clear, or if she was just choosing to ignore it.

“And I heard about how Roger spends all his lunches with-”

“ _Yeah_ ,” you laugh, loud and uncomfortable, cutting her off, “listen,  _why_ are you asking me this? You know you can just  _talk_ to them if you want to get to know them… they’re just  _people_.” She looked taken aback by that, and you think she’s finally starting to get it. Except that you’re pretty sure you’ve offended her with your bluntness, and she purses her lips.

“Well,  _anyways,_  I’m glad he’s got a little ‘ _tour girlfriend’.”_ She sneers, and her words hit you squarely in the chest. She stumbles back to the front of the bus as it continues along, and you feel like you’re gasping for air.

“Hey, what are we?” It’s only a few stops until this leg of the tour is over, and the ASM’s words have been playing on a loop in your head for almost a week. Roger, laying beside you in the morning sunlight, is quiet for a long moment.

“Whaddya mean?” He asks, propping himself up on his elbow to properly look at you, though you’re staring at the ceiling, slight frown creasing your brow.

“I mean… well what happens after the tour?” You still can’t bring yourself to look at him, even as he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“We’ll get to that when we get to it.” Though he may have thought it would be assuring, you feel tension knot in your stomach at his words.

“Rog, if you wanna leave me after, I- I mean I’ll understand.” It hurt you to say the words, and you don’t see the way his expression falls. He hadn’t thought about it, not really, you’d been together for almost two months, and he’d sort of just expected that you’d be on the next leg of the tour too. “They don’t usually keep the same crew for the full, cross-continent tours.” You admitted, heart sinking a little at your own words.

“What if I had a word to them?” His words surprised you, caused your heart to soar momentarily, though you tried not to get your hopes up.

“You really don’t need to do that.” You laughed humorlessly. “It’d be easier, honestly, less paperwork and hassle and shit.” Turning away from him, you feel him reaching for you, resting his hand on your shoulder, tapping a gentle rhythm.

“It’s not a hassle.” He tells you, and then, much quieter, “and it’s not like I want to leave you behind.”

The week and a half of the tour is nice, but different. You and Roger don’t talk about the future, just make the most of your time together, oftentimes becoming frantic and desperate to leave reminders of your existence on one another. Holding tighter than necessary, leaving pleasant bruises and scratch marks in places no-one else would know about, never speaking about what was to come. 

He’d never made mention that he’d talked to EMI, not until the night of the final show. 

It had been  _ethereal_ , he was glowing when he played, so focused and energetic, you tried to listen to the music, thinking it was one of your last chances to hear this set live, but you kept getting lost in the image of him. He  _beams_ at you when he catches you watching from side of stage, starry-eyed. You can’t even bring yourself to be irritated by the ASM’s eye roll. As soon as they finish, you feel the adrenaline flooding through your veins at the prospect of the final bump out, and he heads off stage to the dressing room.

As soon as the auditorium is cleared, the crew is given the go-ahead to start bump out, and you get to work. He comes out fifteen minutes later, and you’re both thrumming with energy.

“Spotlight!” Roger calls to you where you’re pulling up taped down cords. Looking up, startled, you see him making a beeline for you, before he wraps his arms around you, swinging you around. Surprised, you make a squeak before he puts you back down, pressing his lips to yours. You melt into his embrace, kissing him back, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“What’s that for?” You asked a little breathless, grinning at where he was beaming back at you.

“You’re coming to Europe with us.” He told you, and your eyes widened, before you hugged him tightly, laughing with disbelief. “Told EMI you’re the best lighting assistant we have; told them the show’d be a mess without you.” You murmurs in your ear, giving you a squeeze. Looking at him, there’s awe in your eyes, and he can’t help but kiss you again, in the middle of bump out.

“Okay, so who had ‘ _final show’?”_ You hear John’s voice behind you, and when you and Roger break apart, you see the crew crowding around him, all withdrawing their wallets.

“Me, obviously.” Freddie said, and the rest of the crew groaned. “I knew you too had a flare for the dramatic.” Freddie grinned at the both of you, accepting as people offered him ten dollar notes. “Good for you two.”

“Did everyone bet on when we’d get together?” You asked, frowning, and at that, you heard a chorus of laughter rippled through the crew and band members.

“Oh, we’ve known for ages, we’re betting on when you’d make it public.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: Prompt: angst Roger and y/n because he’s jealous after a party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What?! Like, it’s not explicit, but I might have given the reader a slight praise kink. Some sexual content. There is mentions of cheating, just to let you know if that makes you uncomfortable. There might be a problem with pacing but like… suspend your disbelief. Also…. you’ve got a big storm coming.

Your grip is white-knuckled on the armrest as you felt the plane rumble beneath you; anxiety is clutching at your chest as the world falls away beneath the wings of the machine and you’re rising into the sky. Roger isn’t outright laughing from where he’s sitting next to you, but it looks like he wants to. Thankfully, for his sake, he contains himself, resting a hand on your thigh, rubbing it in a gentle, comforting rhythm.

“You’ll be fine, love, these things hardly ever crash, and if this one does, it’ll make the news, probably.” He shrugged, and you glared at him, trying to push down the anxiety curling in your stomach.

“You’re the single least reassuring person I’ve ever met.” You snapped, but he just grinned wider, his hand moving higher on your thigh, your legs part just a little, out of instinct, and you’re too anxious about the flight to even blush at it.

“I could distract you instead.” He offers, giving your thigh a gentle squeeze. Something eases in your chest and you relax your grip on the armrest to put your hand on his. “Love?” He asks, watching how you’re leaning your head back against the headrest, eyes closed, like you were trying to go to your happy place, wishing you weren’t trapped inside this plane. His hand twitches to move away when he doesn’t get a response, but then your own hand is guiding his a little further up, and you’re wearing a little, playful smile, though it’s strained. Roger has to bite back a laugh.

“Could you please wait until the seat belt sign is off?” John’s voice interrupts both of you, pressing his face into the space between your headrests where he’s sitting behind you, sounding characteristically exasperated.

“Or wait until we land, like any decent human being.” You can hear Brian’s sigh from where he’s sitting beside John, his words followed by a world-weary sigh.

“You were both cuter when you thought we didn’t know.” Freddie says, matter-of-factly, and Paul hums in agreement, the two of them sitting in the two seats in front of you.

“So were you.” Roger snaps back, leaning back into his chair, sullen at the sudden onslaught of bullying from his band-mates. “And get your bloody face away from mine.” He smacks John’s forehead with his free hand, which has the man retreating, but you’re silently thankful. Despite this, you’re also flushing with embarrassment, which is only quelled when Roger flips his hand over on your thigh to lace his fingers with yours, giving your hand a comforting squeeze.

It’s weird, to be in public, well, sort of public, and to be allowed to actually be with Roger. You’ve always been so hyper aware of his image, careful to keep your distance where prying eyes might be lurking, the last-performance kiss notwithstanding, but here, in the relative safety of first class -  _and god, that was a mind-boggling realisation_ \- he’d wrapped his arm around you. Once the seat-belt sign has been turned off and the in-flight movie has started, he pulls you into his lap on the luxuriously spacious seat. Everyone on the flight has headphones to listen along to the movie, and the plane is almost silent as everyone looks to the overhead screens. It starts innocently enough, except sitting on Roger isn’t exactly comfortable; he’s got one hand resting on your thigh, innocent enough, and the other on the armrest, but you find yourself shifting every few minutes trying to get comfortable, but it isn’t really working.

“Are you right there?” Roger moves your headphones off of one of your ears, speaking low and quiet, only to you. When you look at him, he’s not even looking you in the eyes, he’s looking at your lips, and you feel your chest tighten, though in a very different way to the plane taking off earlier.

“What?” And you shift again, trying in vain to get more comfortable before you feel him hard and pressing against your ass through his pants, and it dawns on you. After a moment, you lock eyes with him, finally, and wiggle again, deliberate, suppressing a smile. He leans in to kiss you, rough, insistent, his hand on your thigh moving  _dangerously_ higher.

“Let’s not ruin everyone’s movie,” he breathes as he pulls back, his hand moving to give your ass a light tap, and you take the hint, taking off your headphones and making a beeline for the bathroom. You find yourself waiting for almost five minutes in the stall before there’s a knock at the door and Roger’s whispering your name. You haven’t even fully locked the door before he’s pulling off your shirt, murmuring about how you both had to be quiet, though he was grinning in that way that made you  _melt,_ and made you want to be anything  _but_ quiet.

When you head back to your seats none of the others comment on it, though they do seem pretty enraptured with the movie. Your anxiety at flying had dissolved; you’re feeling all warm and syrupy in the afterglow, and Roger clicks down the armrest that separates your two seats, and shifts so that you he can still wrap his arm around you, but you’re sitting next to him, your legs stretched out and arching over his. He puts his own headphones back on, smile  _supremely_ satisfied, and you give yourself a little, mental pat on the back, but don’t bother with your own headphones, resting your head on his shoulder and falling asleep, feeling secure and safe with his arm around you.

When you land, you find yourself whisked almost directly to the new tour bus, and you suddenly find yourself filled with a new uncertainty. The space, at least compared to what you were used to, was lavish, not a single road case in sight.

“You guys  _live_ like this?” You crowed, eyes wide as you raced through the spacious vehicle, plopping yourself down on the cushioned bench beneath the back window while the rest of the band, and the crew travelling in this bus started getting settled in.

“Well yeah, was the other bus really that different?” Roger asks, joining you, sprawling himself out across the seat. The sheer absurdity of his question takes a moment to sink in, but after that you’re laughing, loud and a little bit uncontrollable, mind alight with memories of hot, bump afternoons riding along at the back of the equipment bus, sat atop a road case, holding a light and gels and trying not to touch the drum kit where it was stacked up beside you.

“God, I would have  _killed_ for a cushion.” You breathe, wistful, relaxing further, if it were possible, into the seats. After a beat, you look around at where everyone’s gone quiet; Freddie and John were setting up a board game and Brian was lounging on one of the sofas running along the inside of the bus; you’re pretty sure Roger’s the only one who hears you anyways. “I much prefer it to flying though,” you admit, shifting until you can rest your head on Roger’s shoulder.

“Really?” He asked, voice quiet enough that only you could hear it. “I thought it was a pretty decent flight.” And he reaches up to pinch at your side playfully when the bus starts up. The two of you dissolve into play-fighting, which the others don’t pay much attention to, entertaining themselves as the trip to the first destination began.

“You’re- you- they call you  _Spotlight_ , don’t they?” The voice that greets you before for the first crew meeting is bright, eager, faintly accented, and when you turn, you see it belongs to a sweet looking boy with big, brown eyes, clutching at a clipboard. Laughing a little awkwardly, you nod, and his whole face brightens at the confirmation. “I’m Robbie; I’m stage managing, and they’ve got me operating the lights.” He sounds  _so damn excited_ , it’s a little endearing, and after a beat, he’s peppering you with questions about the American leg of the tour, which you answer with ease.

You’d been worried, not that you’d ever admit it, integrating into a whole new crew; the American tour was staffed with people you’d been working with for years, and here, everything and everyone was new to you. Seeing Robbie smile, so kind and welcoming, it felt like you could breathe.

“How the crew?” Roger asks, and he’s stuck with fond deja vu, sitting behind his drums, watching you cut a whole new set of gels. You’re humming something he can’t quite pick, but you seem happy enough.

“Yeah good,” you concede, only half paying attention as you work, “they’re nice, very welcoming.” You tell him, and he makes his way to you, sitting beside you on the drum risers, picking up some scraps of the gel. After a moment, your hands still, and you watch his, smiling with confusion, before looking at him. “What-” but he’s looking back at you, and he leans in to kiss you once you look up. Putting the gel and the scissors down, you take his face in his hands, giving him an endearing smile.

“I’m working.” You said softly, but he just grinned, leaning in to kiss you again. It’s  _fun_ and  _easy_ to be with Roger at times like this, times when neither of you had to worry about what other people thought, or who saw you together; you were  _happy_  and so was he, and that’s what mattered.

It gets a bit harder, you realise, when in Glasgow you’re leaving the hotel with the band and a few paparazzi come after you; at first they’re shouting at the band but then they spot you where you’re by Roger’s side, trying to keep your face hidden. You see your picture in some gossip rag the next day when Robbie gives it to you with a long suffering and apologetic look. 

“The boss wants you to be more careful about being seen.” He’s rolling his eyes at the boss’s words, however, when you ask him what he means, you learn that you’d been photographed with them in America, and people were starting to speculate that you might be part of the tour group. The Boss thinks it reflects poorly. The rest of the band is in the photo, but you’re the one being accused of being a world-travelling gold digger in the article.

When you tell Roger, or more specifically show him the article and make an offhand comment about not really being seen with the band in public anymore, he throws the magazine across the hotel room, scowling.

“They’re printing lies, Spotlight, what do you care?” He asks. You’re gentle when you step towards him, resting your hands on his shoulders.

“I care about my career and my reputation, Roger, you understand, right?” Voice soft, you don’t move until he looks at you, expression a little hurt. “I know I’m not a gold digger, but if I want to get anywhere in life, I need other people to believe that too.” You explained, and he didn’t exactly seem happy about it.

“You’re fantastic at your job, babe, isn’t that enough?” He asked, and you felt yourself flush, suppressing a grin at the praise.

“I wish it was.” You told him, voice a little forlorn, and he leaned in to kiss you, a silent agreement to your request. After a moment you pulled back, actually letting yourself grin. “You think I’m good at my job?” You asked, giggling, and Roger’s expression brightened as he huffed out a laugh.

“You know I do.” And it’s the most gentle you think you’ve ever heard him, the sweet sincerity shifts as his hands come up to rest on your hips. He knows all too well the effect he has on you when he compliments your work. “How many times do I have to tell you?” He asks, a single eyebrow raised, teasing edge to his tone.

“I mean, if you told me _too much_ I think we both know I’d never get anything done.” And your fingers are nimbly undoing his fly. With a cheeky grin, he kisses you again, rougher, biting at your bottom lip before you pull away.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He muses, watching the way you wet your lips, smiling at him. “You’re  _very_ good at other things too, love.” 

“I know.” You watch him through your lashes, biting your lip to keep from laughing as his whole face lights up and he’s snorting out a laugh at your response, and you fall to your knees, already pulling down the waistband of his jeans.

He doesn’t like that you insist on leaving the hotel at different times, becomes a little clingy in the mornings when you go to get up, but he always manages to tug you back down to him, and you get lost in the way he smiles in the early morning sunlight, the feel of his lips on yours, the way he laughs softly against your skin. 

Despite this, he keeps his distance around other people. The band he doesn’t worry about, but he stays up by his drums during lunch, and sometimes during the after parties you attend, he’ll disappear for a few hours at a time, and you find him at the bar, reasonably hammered, surrounded by fans fawning over him. He always goes home with you though, so you try not to feel too jealous.

“Hey,  _Light_? I’m getting lunch, do you want anything?” Things start going downhill the day Robbie pops his head in during your lunch break; you’re at the top of a ladder, fiddling with the angle of a parcan, and Roger’s at his drums.

“No thanks.” You call back, chipper, shooting the ASM a smile, and when he leaves, Roger frowns at you.

“Did he give your nickname a nickname?” He punctuates it with a laugh, but it sounds more angry than anything else.

“That’s Robbie,” your explanation does not seem to placate him. You’d been spending a lot of time with Robbie, the two of you bonding over both having worked on Bowie’s last tour. “He’s German.” You add, as if the fun fact might warm Roger to him.

“I know how to pick accents.” He snapped back at you, and you actually stopped your work to look at him, a little shocked and defensive at his tone. He’s not looking at you, he’s gone back to watching the door.

“He’s the ASM, Rog, chill out, we work together.” You tell him. He doesn’t respond, and all you can do is go back to your work, a squirming discomfort making itself known in your chest.

He disappears after the show that night, not coming to find you after bump out like he usually would, and you try to assume the best; that he’s too high from adrenaline and the endorphins of such a good show that he’d wanted to ride the hype the rest of the band. It wasn’t deliberate, you told yourself.

“You going to the after party?” Robbie asks carefully, hands in his pockets, still wearing his own theatre blacks. You realise you must look a little lost, and when you decide that you are, you tell him, and he offers to walk with him. He’s sweet, excitedly gushing about how he can’t wait for the Munich show so he could see his girlfriend, and you find yourself enthusing about how exciting it is to be travelling around Europe. Once you step foot in the pub, the two of you part ways, Robbie heading for the bar, and you seeking your own boyfriend.

His whole face lights up when he sees you, and the anxiety that had been building in your chest dissipates when he wraps his arms around you, spinning you around.

“I’m sorry, I got caught up.” He told you, but he doesn’t kiss you, just pulls you down to the sofa with him where Freddie’s in the middle of an animated discussion with Brian.

It happens again at the next stop, he leaves you behind and you make your way to the after party talking with Robbie. He’s kind, sweet, looking forward to marrying his high school sweetheart. If you’re being honest, it’s nice to have someone to talk to who understands your side of touring, being another interchangeable face to the talent you’re helping, someone down to earth and . He gushes about how jealous he is of your friendship with the band, starry eyed in the cool night air.

Again, when you arrive at the venue, Roger’s already there, and he doesn’t get up this time, just beckons you to him with a bright smile. It doesn’t ease your discomfort like you hoped his smile would.

“Are you mad at me?” You ask gently one night; the two of you were walking in relative silence, side by side, not touching for fear of paparazzi, you try to justify.

“No, why?” He asked, and you look at him, eyes narrowed as you examine him, and his smile is a little far away when he looks back at you. After a long moment of silence, he takes your hand, pulling you both to a stop, facing each other. He wraps his arms around you, still giving you that far away smile, and he kisses you. “I’m sorry I keep leaving you behind, love.” 

“So you’re not mad at me?” You confirm, stepping back and taking his hand, continuing to walk.

“Of course not; should I be?” And the way he says it, so perfectly fucking harmless, has the hairs on the back of your neck standing up.

“No!” You defend, and he’s laughing easily in the moonlight. 

It keeps happening, sporadically, and it always seems to coincide with whenever he sees you and Robbie together, or Robbie comes in to offer to get you lunch, and you know what’s happening before you dare to admit it.

On some of the nights where you opt to go straight back to the hotel, you’re woken by him flopping into bed beside you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you to him, warm and protective, at odds with the discomfort in your chest.

“Missed you.” He yawns, smelling of alcohol and cigarettes, and one time, of faint, fruity perfume that you don’t recognise. When you ask him, he says that someone spilled a cocktail on him, and you realise you can’t even tell if he’s lying or not. 

“You jealous?” And you can hear the sleepy smirk in his words, and your own tired mind is unguarded, unfiltered.

“A little.” You whisper into the silence of the hotel room. He doesn’t answer you, but his grip on you tightens, and he hums, the meaning of which you can’t decipher. It takes you a long while to get to sleep after that.

It comes to a head a few weeks later, however, the night they perform in Paris.

“I miss her so much.” Robbie bemoaned you as the two of you walked together, his arm tucked into yours as he waxed poetic about his now-fiance. “She sent me a care package and I swear I almost cried in front of the sound operator.” 

“Why?” You laughed, and Robbie groaned.

“I opened it in the bio box because I picked it up from the front desk on my way here, like right after checking in.” By the time you get to the after party, the music is already blaring, and like always, you split up to go your respective ways. Roger greets you warmly, making room for you on the sofa he was sprawled on, wrapping an arm around you as he continued his conversation with a starry-eyed groupie, who didn’t even acknowledge your presence. You make conversation with John, who’s hovering near the arm of the sofa, bopping along to the music, looking a little bit longingly at the dance floor.

Roger goes to get a drink a little while later, smiling and asking if you’d like anything, and as soon as he’s gone, Robbie, now quite plastered, pours himself into the empty seat.

“I called her-  _Spotlight,_ I miss her so much - and she told me she loves me and she can’t wait until I get home; should I walk back to Germany? I wanna see her.” He asked, words blurring together a little from his accent and his inebriated state, and he rests his head on your shoulder.

“This is Robbie; he misses his fiance.” You explain to a confused looking Freddie, who’s expression melts into one of adoration, and he ‘ _aww’_ s at that. Robbie is starry-eyed for a long moment, before he turns to you.

“Should I walk to Munich? I miss her.” He reiterates, and you burst out laughing, petting his head fondly.

“No, don’t walk to Munich, you should go home, we’ve got a big day tomorrow.” You tell him, and he groans, clearly not having received the answer he wanted. Instead, you get to your feet and offer him your hand. “I’ll walk you back, we’re staying at the same hotel.”

You find Roger at the bar with one of your arms around Robbie’s shoulders where he’s pretty much legless, the lightweight. There’s a muscle jumping in Roger’s jaw when he sees you, and you hesitate, giving him a confused look.

“Hey, I’m just going to take Robbie back to his room, okay? I’m probably going to bed after.” You tell him. He doesn’t smile, just offers you the drink he got you and blinks slowly when you wave it away. “I’ll see you later, okay?” You ask gently, hoping to get a response from him, but he’s just giving Robbie a sour, calculating look. Robbie is transfixed by the lights behind the bar and does not notice.

When you finally get Robbie into bed, much later than you would have thought since he insisted on stopping at everything that caught his interest, and taking five minutes of standing still and explaining how beautiful his fiance’s eyes were, he’s still wearing his shoes. Once under the covers, he grabs your hands and looks you in the eyes, suddenly serious.

“You’re good. You’re a good sort,  _Spotlight_.” He tells you, his accent coming in just a little thicker with his sincerity, and he pets your hands, before abruptly turning away from you and pulling the blankets up to his nose, clearly tapping out for the night.

The room you shared with Roger was just a few floors up, and you’re in the elevator when you realise you’d left your keys in your room. You usually did, you always went back with Roger, so you usually didn’t need them. When you approach the door, you think you hear murmuring from the other side, but it could have been from across the hall, you don’t think about it too much as you knock. There’s a giggled ‘ _shhh’_ from the other side of the door that’s less easy to play off, but you’re tired enough to think it’s just mostly-asleep Roger. You knock again, but no-one replies. It’s too late to knock  _too_ much, and you  _know_ he’s a deep sleeper, so with a heavy, tired heart, you make your way down the hall.

“What do you want?” Paul’s frowning at you when he opens the door, wearing his blue pyjamas, squinting at you.

“Keys to the bus please, I need somewhere to sleep, Roger’s not answering.” You tell him, and punctuate it with a yawn. After a beat more of watching you, as if assessing your motives, he disappears back into his room and reappears with the keys.

“Don’t lose them.” He warned, before closing the door on you.

The sofa in the bus is long enough that you can spread out, and you find someone’s fur coat to use as a blanket. It’s comfortable enough, a little cold, and it’s only when you hear a banging on the door and feel the sunlight on your face the next morning that you get up.

Opening the door, you see Roger standing there, looking up at you, waiting for entrance. Moving back to your makeshift bed, you take a seat, giving him a confused smile.

“I… didn’t think you’d actually be  _here_.” He already sounds like he’s in a mood, bitter, but a little bit hesitant.

“Of course I stayed here, I knocked but you didn’t answer- what was up with that?” You asked, punctuating it with a yawn, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. He watched for a moment before he slid his sunglasses down his nose to glare at you over them.

“ _What_ are you doing here?” He asked, voice a little hoarse and scratchy, moving from hesitant to just quietly angry, the venom in his words hurting like a physical slap, and you sat up straighter.

“I’m-” And you’re searching for the words, but none come to mind.

“Why are you still on  _this_ bus?” He explains in a hiss. After a beat, he slides his glasses back up his nose, and turns to look away from you, a clear dismissal.

You’re at a loss as to how to explain that you’re here because… well, you’re  _always_ here, it’s where you were now. He’s the one who’d brought you here. 

“What do you mean?  _You’re_  the one who wanted me here.” Standing your ground, you don’t dare let your voice betray how confused and hurt you were feeling. 

“Yeah, well now I  _don’t_.” He snapped. His words hit you squarely in the chest, and he leaves you in your shocked, dazed silence, moving to the back of the bus. “Fuck off back to the equipment bus, since you prefer it so much better.” He snarled, and that’s what unfroze you. 

“ _Christ_ , I don’t get paid enough to deal with whatever this is  _and_ ride in that bus, so that’s a  _resounding ‘_ no thanks’. And more importantly; what the  _fuck_ has gotten into you?” Emotion comes crashing back into you, rage tearing through you like a tidal wave, and you turn on him, jaw clenched.

“’ _Whatever this is_ ’” he snorted, low and bitter, “yeah, but you get paid enough to fuck that little, brown-haired cockhead?” He asked, and your eyes went wide.

“Who?  _Robbie_?” You asked, voice dangerously calm. “You think I’m fucking  _Robbie?_  Our assistant stage manager? Who just  _proposed_ to his  _girlfriend_ at our stop in Munich? That  _brown-haired cockhead?”_ You snarled, advancing on Roger like a predator cornering her prey, bitter tension gathering across your skin.

“Was he the one crying on your shoulder last night at the after party?” Roger raised an eyebrow, but the sting had left his words. Narrowing your eyes, you confirm with a single, venomous ‘ _yes’_. “Oh.”

“Is  _that_ why you locked me out last night? You thought I was-”

“I was  _angry_ , okay?” He cut you off, sitting down at the back of the bus, and though his tone is angry, his demeanour, the way he’s avoiding your gaze and fiddling, it’s… almost guilty. In that moment, it was as if you’d been splashed with cold water, an icy realisation slithering down your spine.

“ _What does that mean_?” Voice level, you try not to jump to conclusions, but your heart is already sinking. He doesn’t answer. When he turns away, you see a hickey on his collar that wasn’t there yesterday. “Roger,  _what_ did you do?” You asked, and the hurt was already bleeding through into your words.

“I was… I was  _so fucking angry_.” It’s not a real answer, it’s not even a real excuse. The way he says it, jaw clenched, heart in his throat, he’s all but bleeding guilt, too proud to ask for forgiveness.

“Bullshit.” Your can feel tears welling in your eyes and threatening to spill, but your hands are shaking with anger, hurt, betrayal, and you don’t even care. “You’ve been weird for  _weeks_ , you were just looking for the first out you could get.” 

“Y/N.” He stands, reaches out to grab your shoulder, but you step back, out of his reach.

“No.” Your voice is firm, but your lip is quivering. “I don’t want you to  _ever_ touch me again,” wrapping your arms across your chest, looking at his outstretched hand with disdain through your tears. “ _Being angry_  isn’t an excuse. Jumping to conclusions  _isn’t an excuse_. I get that it must be fun fucking around with the girl who makes you work for it by  _your_ standards, but,” shaking your head, you sniffle, holding yourself a little tighter with one hand, you wipe away your tears with the other, “the moment you  _have to_  work, have to put in a little bit of fucking  _trust_? You couldn’t even do that.”

“Spotlight, please-”

“I’m in  _fucking Europe_ for you, Roger! What in your  _fucking, dumbass mind_ thinks that I’m someone who travels halfway across the world with someone just to cheat on them?” You’re yelling now, grateful to be alone and worrying that others would join you at any minute. You didn’t want them seeing you like this.

“For  _me_? You’re here for work! I’m opening doors for you in the industry that you’d never have opened yourself!” And he knows even as he’s saying it that it’s the wrong thing to say, but he’s too furious at himself, lashing out at the only person he could. He watches as your expression turns shocked, before shattering, and you start bawling your eyes out, holding your face in your hands. Regret floods through him, but as he steps forwards to comfort you, you yell for him to fuck off.

“I can’t- I can’t leave can I? If I leave the tour, they’ll think the tabloid are right, that I’m some dumb groupie.” And you turn, distraught, and curl up on the sofa along the inside of the bus, still bawling, loud and ugly, great heaving sobs wracking your body as you realise the full extent of what had happened, and what it would mean for you. “You’ve  _ruined_ my fucking career.”

“That’s a bit of an overstatement.” He can’t even bring himself to apologise, sitting back against the window of the bus, watching as you curl yourself into a ball, the only sound filling the silence being your sobbing. It hurts, his heart is fucking aching, but he couldn’t admit it. When you raised your head to look at him, your eyes red rimmed and lip trembling, he feels only a white hot guilt fill him from the inside out.

“You don’t get it, this industry is about who you know, and if all I am is some girl who Roger Taylor  _fucked_ , flew across the world, and got bored with, it doesn’t matter how good at my job I am, I’ll just be another groupie with aspirations.” And you bury your face in your hands again.

“We could… pretend like nothing happened, until the end of the tour.” He offers, quietly, the weakest hail mary pass you’d ever heard, and you roll your eyes at him.

“I’d rather have my dignity, thanks.” You spat, taking in a deep shaking breath as you finally sat up, wiping fruitlessly at your eyes as tears continued to flow, though you tried to pull yourself together.

“You’re not under contract, you  _can_ leave if you want.” And it might literally be last on the list of things you’d wanted to hear at that moment.

“I  _get it,_ Roger, you don’t want me around.” You snap, standing. “You are who you are; I was stupid to think you were better than that.” You sniffled. When you turn and leave, he’s silent, replaying your words over and over again in his head until he’s absolutely  _livid_ at what he’s done. 

When the rest of the band returns almost a full half an hour later, he’s  _trashed_ the entirety of the bus, even going to far as to rip up the cushioning on the bench beneath the back window. 

“So you’ve heard the news I take it.” Brian looks at the scene before them, voice and demeanour both surprisingly nonchalant, and Roger, breathing heavily amid the carnage, gives him a sharp look. “Spotlight’s heading home, something’s come up with her family.” He explains. Behind him, John’s already started picking up a fractured mug, and Freddie is just frowning at Roger.

“Yeah?” Is all Roger says, snatching up the cushions from where he’d thrown them, and flopping himself onto the back bench, facing away from them all. 

“She’s just talking to the production manager if you’d like to say goodbye.” Freddie offers, carefully neutral, and Roger suspects he knows something’s up with the story.

“She doesn’t want to see me.” He huffed sulkily, and the others lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. They can tell it’s a touchy subject but they don’t pry. They don’t hear from you, don’t even know how to contact you if they had been able to, instead they watch Roger pick up different girls night after night, trash hotel rooms, and grow shorter when interacting with the crew, especially the assistant stage manager.

“I am who I am.” Is all he says, lips around a cigarette where he’s chain smoking in the empty theatre at lunch when Freddie finds him and finally asks what’s wrong. Freddie wants to ask what happened, wants to ask why you really left, but he knows Roger well enough to figure most of it out. Roger’s a ticking time bomb nowadays, so he doesn’t pry. 

The band doesn’t talk about you, not when paparazzi and reports yell out asking where you are, not to the crew, they barely talk about you to each other, and they never talk about you around Roger. 

The bus is quieter now.

Roger’s louder now. 

There’s an ache in his chest that won’t go away, that he’s filling with meaningless sex and too much booze because he can’t stand waking up alone, and he still thinks about what you said, and the way you had smiled at him before it all went to shit. He remembers how you’d risked your life for a light beneath his drums, and sometimes at breakfast he finds himself thinking about how you’d thrown a plate of food in his face before you were even real friends, and he wants to  _yell_ , to  _scream,_ because  _how could he be so fucking_ _ **stupid**? _You’d seen him for who he was, and chose to be with him despite it, you thought he could be better than his reputation, but he’d just managed to prove he wasn’t. 

It hits him when he’s got his hands on some girl whose name he doesn’t know that all he can think about is you, and he hates himself when he leans into the fantasy, not that the other girl notices. He’d rather fuck around than admit he’d developed feelings for you, and so he does, and pretends like he doesn’t miss your sleepy, morning grin, or the casual way the two of you would chat as you were rigging the spotlights for the band.

The day he finds out they’ve replaced you, the kid they’ve got is at the top of the ladder during lunch when he walks in, and he’s hit with such a sense of deja vu that he stops in his tracks.

“I was told this is the best time for me to get work done.” Her voice, thank god she sounds nothing like you, is hesitant, with none of the calm confidence you exuded at the top of the ladder.

“It’s none of my fucking business.” Roger snaps, and turns on his heel and leaves, pretending like it hadn’t felt like he’d just seen a ghost. He gets another drink.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 4? part 4. it’s a bit of a darker one and before you ask, there will be a part 5, you know i wouldn’t end it on a cliffhanger and do you dirty like that.

The moment Roger steps foot into the meeting about the design of the shows for the upcoming American legs of the ‘ _Night at the Opera’_ world tour, he’s pretty sure he’s already mentally checked out. Freddie’s doing all the talking, to literally no-one’s surprise; the man has big ambitions for his own costumes, and knows the other guys will pipe up about their own needs when they get to meet with just the costume designer. John Reid brings up the technical requirements, Roger’s got the ‘ _galileo’_ s from  _Bohemian Rhapsody_  playing on repeat in his head as he stares into the middle distance, and it’s Deaky who sits forward.

“We’ve got a pretty solid idea for the lights; Freddie and I have been consulting with a designer in America; she’s freelance, used to work for EMI, she’s reliable.” He assures, and Roger’s thinking ‘ _hey that sounds familiar’_ but Reid seems satisfied and they’re already moving on to the staging and sound equipment needed. 

Roger doesn’t connect the dots at first; it’s been almost four years since that fateful American tour, and they’ve had other tours come and go since, and as far as the others are concerned, they’re pretty sure he hasn’t spared you a thought since arriving home at the end of that tour. But he does, even if he doesn’t mean to.

The tour after you’d quit working for EMI, someone drops a parcan side of stage, and his heart is in his throat when he realises he was waiting to hear you yell ‘ _okay that one wasn’t my fault’_ or something similar. All he hears is a faint apology, and a call from someone to get a broom. The scheduling’s different this time around, he can’t even have a cigarette in an empty theatre without some stagehand buzzing back and forth, or a band member trotting across the stage as they practice. It would be so much easier to lay on the stage if the rest of them were confined to one place while they played, like he was behind the drums. It’d be boring as shit, he would be the first to acknowledge that, but it would mean he would get stepped on less during lunch, and that’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make with the toe of Freddie’s shoe poking at his waist.

Nothing serious had come his way in that time, or rather, he’d never found anyone who could hold his attention for more than a week or two. People became dreadfully boring when all they wanted to do was faun over him and fuck him; not that it wasn’t fun at first, it was  _always_ fun at first, but there was a lack of variety, a sinking sensation that these people were more attracted to the idea of him that left a sour aftertaste.

But now he’s here, new company, new album, second leg of the new tour, new chance to sample all different women across this great nation. He’s already a little tipsy from his multiple jack and coke’s on the plane when they land, and he’s passed out on the tour bus before it even gets to the first tour stop. Once in Conneticut, he’s dragged from the bus, and informed that as soon as the tech crew had finished their meeting, they could start loading in their instruments. 

“How long have they been here?” Brian asks the stage hand, and the guy shrugs. 

“A couple of hours; the Floor Tech wanted the drum risers set up before she gave the brief.” He tells them as he lead the band in to the theatre, where most of the crew were milling about on stage. 

“She always did have a flare for the dramatic.” John says with a grin where his eyes were trained on the stage, and Freddie hums in agreement, which only serves to confuse Roger further until he sees an all too familiar figure climbing the drum risers with a clipboard in hand.

“Alright guys, can I have your attention, please?” Even after all these years, the sound of your voice hits Roger square in the chest. “I wanna make this as quick and painless as possible, so after today we can bump in and bump out without any hassles.” You addressed the crowd with an easy confidence from your place at the top of the drum risers, tapping your nails against the back of the clipboard in your hands, wearing the overalls he’d seen you in so many times before.

“You can call me Spotlight; I’m the Head Floor Tech for the tour, as well as lighting designer; those of you on my lighting team, you’ve got a copy of the lighting plan, and I’ll be talking to you about how we’re gonna run it after this. Next time, I’ll get some help from the stage hands to set up the drum risers, I had a few people help me today to get them set up early, but that’s just because I like being tall.” With a sharp grin you pause as a titter of laughter spreads around the group, “stage management team, you’re in charge of making sure side of stage is set up with anything the band needs, and that it’s clear of unnecessary clutter and people, and running cabling for the sound guys; they’ll tell you what they need.”

After a beat, you look around the gathered crowd, and nod firmly, a gesture which a few of them return.

“If you have any questions, remember; find your  _Light_.” You point directly at yourself. “We break for lunch at one, but until then we’ve got a lot to get through;  _let’s get rockin’_.” Grinning brightly, you hop down from the risers into the crowd of crew members, ushering a bunch, each holding a sheet of paper, off to the side, as the others scattered like cockroaches under light.

“What the fuck is she doing here?” Roger finally finds his voice where he’s still standing, a little dumbstruck, alone in the aisle of the theatre where the others had left him behind.

“Didn’t you hear her speech? Spotlight’s our lighting designer.” Freddie calls over his shoulder, eyes wide and innocent, as if he hadn’t set this all up without thinking to mention it to Roger.

“Our  _what now?”_ He splutters, jogging a little to catch up to the other band members as they made their way towards the stage. He’s not quite sure what he’s doing, or what will happen when he gets their; the last thing you’d said to him was that you were stupid to think he was above his reputation, while you were in tears, and then it had been three years of  _nothing_. He’s not going to run, at least he’s pretty sure he’s not; he’s self aware enough to know he was in the wrong last time you spoke, that he was an asshole, but he’s not going to be a coward. Not again.

“That was quite the speech.” John waits patiently until the crew who made up the lighting team had dispersed before addressing the familiar face at the centre. You turn, eyes bright and smile brighter, casually making your way towards him and the rest of the band.

“Yeah, I really feel in my element, you know?” It’s with an easy familiarity that you pull John into a hug, giving him a firm squeeze. “Good to finally see you again.” And then you’re hugging Freddie, and then Brian, and you stop short in front of Roger. It’s a stalemate, neither one wanting to be the first to look away, but both unsure of what to do. In the end, you don’t even offer him a handshake, just nod, and you turn back to the others.

“How’s  _Pippin_ been?” Freddie asks, and you’re about to answer, but Roger cuts in.

“Hang on, can someone fill me in here? Lovely to see you, by the way, just a little confused as to how you got here.” He says, and you’re lost for words, just blinking rapidly, trying to process the whole situation.

“Did you not tell him I was working with you guys?” Your words come out incredulous as you turn your gaze upon John and Freddie, who seem just as bewildered as you.

“I thought he’d cotton on when I mentioned an American designer who used to work for EMI.” John mused, turning his gaze on Roger, who frowned, thinking back to the initial meeting he’d just mentioned.

“I did,” Brian piped up, before casting a smile at John and Freddie that was just a little bit confused, “though I wasn’t a part of this little setup.” He tried to reassure the drummer.

“In my defense,” Roger started, before his gaze dropped, “I wasn’t paying attention, design isn’t exactly my forte.” He admitted, and you had to shake your head at that, exasperated and already a exhausted.

“ _Pippin’_ s good.” You go back to John’s initial question.  _Pippin_ isn’t so much a person as it is a touring version of a Broadway musical that had opened a year ago, to great success.

It turns out a written letter of recommendation from both the lead singer, and bass player of  _Queen_  goes rather far in the industry. After taking some time for yourself, you call up EMI to beg them not to fire you, however it turns out you needn’t have; both John and Freddie had given  _glowing_ reports of your work ethic and skill, and the man on the other end of the line is just eager to know when you were next available. 

The moment you’re on site next, they tell you you’ve been promoted to Floor Tech; they hand you a roll of gaff tape and a drill and a whole new set of responsibilities, heaped onto your usual load. You don’t even remember who had been performing, the tour had only lasted a month, all you know is that they were calling you Spotlight from the moment you’d arrived; apparently it was what Freddie had called you, and John had to clarify.

John is the first to contact you again, through EMI of course, and he becomes something of a comfort when you consider taking your career beyond the company that kept you firmly in the one position on tour. Freddie calls you less often, and never about business; it’s John who gives you the courage to leave EMI, and he’s the one who helps set up as a freelance theatre and event crew member. 

People had been head hunting you from tour to tour, beyond even EMI, some smaller acts even giving you the full Lighting Designer role. They expect you to sit back, let a stage hand or an assistant to take care of it, but every time you watch someone else focus a spot, your fingers itch to be doing it yourself.  _Dedicated to a fault_ , Roger had once called you, you think about it every time you climb an unsteady ladder, and think perhaps that he’s right.

The moment  _Pippin_ announces it’s tour, and puts out calls for crew, you’re first in line for the job, putting your hat in the ring for lighting, but happy enough to take any crew role. Not that you don’t  _love_ working with bands, but there’s a certain finesse that comes with theatre lighting that you can’t get anywhere else in the world. After two years, and the support of both John and Freddie, you find yourself as the assistant Lighting Designer, as well as Head Floor Tech, and once you step foot onto the tour bus, everything else becomes history.

Speaking of history, later in the day, after the rest of the crew have broken for lunch, you’re wedged under the drum risers, running some cables, when you hear someone climb up them, taking a seat at the drums.

“If you play one beat-” You’re cut off by Roger’s yell of surprise, as he’s so startled he almost falls off his chair.

“Holy shit, who is that?” He’s breathing heavily, voice panicked, and for a moment you take pleasure imagining clutching his hand to his chest like a delicate, little grandmother.

“Take a wild stab in the dark,” you mutter, unwedging yourself from beneath the structure, raising an eyebrow as you look at him. Almost immediately he’s frowning, and you’re thrown back to the moment almost three years ago where you’d been here before, looking up at him from behind the drum risers after you’d changed out the light mid-show. Clearing your throat loudly, you break the moment, getting to your feet and making your way to the side of the stage.

“What are you doing here?” He calls, watching idly as you go about counting out fly lines until you get to the one you’d been looking for. You’d gotten here early to go through the fly-line procedure with the Duty Tech for the venue, and now you lowered the LX bar it was attached to with ease after making sure there was no-one in the way. Your focus made something in his chest tighten, and he feels like he’s being taken back in time; you’re beautiful when you work, passionate and skilled, meticulous, that hadn’t changed. Roger has to look away.

“My job,” and you just sound  _tired_ when you say it, already securing the meticulously placed lights onto the bar you’d just lowered, going along and fixing them to the metal in a neat line. An uncomfortable silence spreads between you, punctuated only by the scrape of metal against metal, and the rattle of the safety chains.

“What are  _you_ doing here?” You don’t even  _try_ to hide the snippiness from your voice, not even turning to look at his as the accusatory words hang in the air.

“I’m having a smoke in what I thought was going to be relative  _peace,_ it’s something I do, okay?” Voice defensive, you hear the rustle of cardboard and hear the click of a cigarette, your annoyance growing with each passing moment.

“ _No_ , it’s what  _I_ do. It’s what  _I_  did three years ago,  _you_ just started showing up.  _You_ stole  _my_ relative peace.” You snapped, turning to him, a blazing fury in your eyes at his words, before your lip curled in disgust, “And you don’t even  _do_ anything with it.” You scoffed, and he went quiet, sulking behind his drum kit. Sensing he wasn’t got to talk back you turn back to your work.

The moment you turn away, he sees the way you heave a sigh, angry tension draining from your shoulders, a little hunched as you concentrated. Your hands shake a little as you fiddle with the safety chains. There’s still that confidence there, the ease with which you moved about the stage, but unlike around other people, when it was just Roger - though he suspected you were pretending he wasn’t there - you just looked… weary.

After that first town, he keeps his distance for a few stops, though the other band members look to keep you company on occasion. But then… he’s there again. Quiet this time, he just watches where you hold yourself like royalty at the top of a rickety ladder, so sure of yourself. He’d forgotten the sight of you in your element, and it hits him like a truck.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” You snap when you chance a glance down and see his awestruck expression looking up at you. The shock comes when he actually looks abashed, averting his gaze, picking up his drumsticks and tapping out a rhythm that you’re pretty sure you recognise.

You’re both too stubborn to give the other one the peace of the theatre at lunch, however, while you’re content with stewing in silence as you worked, Roger, to no-one’s surprise, is not.

“How’ve you been?” He brings himself to ask. You stop where you’re replacing a gel on one of the drum riser lights, taking a long moment to consider your words carefully.

“Busy.”  _Tired_. The subtext comes through loud and clear, despite your short answer, and once you’d finished with the light, you stand, before taking a moment to stretch your back out from behind hunched over.

“Working a lot?”  _I can tell_. He answers after a long pause, almost sympathetic, and you know he’s not really responding to the words you’d said out loud.

“Yeah, non stop.” No subtext, just responding at face value, before your eyes up to the mostly finished rig. Afternoons were for last minute fixes and focusing, there wasn’t much left you could do, unless you were willing to ask for Roger’s help.

“When did your last thing end?” He asks, and you click your tongue as you turn on your heel, burned out gel in your hand, heading for a bin.

“Two days before this one.” You admitted. When you’re met with silence, you turn, and Roger’s frowning at you, almost disbelieving.

“You’re not still sleeping on the tour bus, are you?” He asks, and you roll your eyes before you tell him your accommodation is paid for this time around. You’re the first to leave, for the first time since everything had started, you leave halfway through to actually eat lunch, leaving Roger to himself.

When he’s drunk after the show, leaning against some local pub, with a girl leaning against him, heavy enough that the two of them would have tipped over if it wasn’t for the counter, he can’t get you out of his mind.

“I didn’t ruin her career.” His eyes go wide as the words, with something akin to revelation, escape him, and the girl makes a noise of confusion, her fingers ghosting over his chest, but he can’t even bring himself to enjoy it.

“I didn’t ruin her career!” He announces, excited and pleased in his inebriated state, sitting himself so forcefully on the arm of Freddie’s chair that he spills part of his drink. Freddie makes a noise of confusion, looking up at the blonde, and Roger gesticulates enough to spill more of his drink, ignoring Freddie’s yelp. “ _Spotlight!_ She said I’d ruined her career!” 

“When?” Freddie asks, just as John pops out from seemingly nowhere.

“Well you certainly didn’t help it. That was me.” Roger doesn’t care that John’s drunk, the way bassist says it, so serene and matter-of-fact, makes it sting just a little bit worse. His mood instantly flips.

“Can you piss off? Go be her best friend somewhere else.” Roger snapped, and he knew he’d regret being so sharp with John the following morning, but it seemed John himself knew that Roger was in a mood, and obligingly fucked off, seemingly not taking it to heart. “When we broke up, she accused me of ruining her career.” And he realises too late, when Freddie’s eyes go wide with realisation, that he’s said too much.

“Is this where you tell me exactly what went down between you two?” He asked, tapping Roger’s leg with excitement. The blonde, however, stood abruptly, glower on his face.

“No. Fuck off.” 

Roger spends almost fifteen minutes banging on the door of the tour bus before he remembers that you’re not in there, and falls into bed alone, fully clothed.

“The  _fuck_ did you say to Freddie last night?” The moment he steps foot onto the stage at lunch, you’re waiting for him, already livid. He’s tempted to turn and walk right back out the door. “Apparently he doesn’t know the real reason that I went home last ti- !” 

“Of course he doesn’t!” Roger snapped back, on the defensive without a moment’s hesitation. “It makes me look like a fucking wanker and he’d kick my ass; he  _adores_ you!” And that was enough to shock you into silence, grip loosening on the gaff tape in your hands. “They all do.” He said, and your expression turns unreadable.

“I know.” You finally said, a new, strange quality to your voice, it’s something akin to shock, but not quite, and Roger doesn’t know what to say next. “What about you?” You finally ask, voice a little defensive. It hurts to see you look at him with such a judgemental eye, though he’s well aware he deserves it.

“Doesn’t matter, does it? I could apologise a thousand times and you’d still be pissy.” He huffs, and you cross your arms, cocking your hip.

“At least once  _would_ be nice.” You level a cold glare at him and his gaze snaps back at yours, surprised. “You never  _once_ apologised, you know that?” And your voice is low, hurt and honest. “Are you even sorry for what happened?”

“It was three years ago-” He sighs, but you cut him off, shifting your weight to your other foot, swallowing thickly.

“So that’s a no. Glad to see where you stand.” And you turn to cross the stage to where you’ve already got the ladder set up, but he makes his way to you in three long strides, making to grab at your upper arm. The moment he does, however, you whirl around, slapping him,  _hard_. “I told you to never fucking touch me; did you think I forgot?” And he sees why you were so eager to leave; there’s tears in your eyes, so close to breaking and streaming down your cheeks, your lip trembling. Something about your voice is so raw, it hurts worse than the slap.

“I  _am_ sorry.” And he sounds so fucking sincere, but you just glare at him, unashamed where the tears have begun to track down your cheeks. 

“You had your chance to say sorry; you had your chance to  _beg_ for forgiveness, but you told me I could leave; so I did, and so did your fucking opportunity.” But you can’t bring yourself to step back, frozen in place where he’s less than a foot away. Every fibre of your being is betraying you, wanting to be around him, close to him, after what he did.

“I’m sorry what happened between us;” his voice is so level, carefully controlled, you know he’s think hard about what he’s about to admit, “I fucked up, I  _know_ that; I’m sorry. It was three years ago but I’m still sorry. I’ve been sorry for a long time now.”

“Since it happened?” You asked, and he didn’t drop your gaze, answering without flinching or hesitation.

“Since I started worrying I’d lose you; I know what I’m like, I knew what I’d end up doing.” He admitted, and the words clearly didn’t have his intended impact as you stumble back, free hand clutching your chest.

“And yet you still-” And quietly, so quietly you’re not even sure he hears it, the words come out as more of a defeated whimper than anything else; “How could you not tell I was in love with you?” 

He’s in  _shock_ , and you barge past him, leaving as you can no longer contain your aching heart, and you head to the hotel you were staying at down the road, taking the rest of the lunch break to cry.

When you return, the rest of the crew has filtered in, Roger looks guilty, and Freddie and John look about ready to commit violent homicide, which was unsurprising for Freddie, but there was something comforting about Deaky wearing the expression too. In less than a week, the whole crew knows, and wherever you go, you feel yourself followed by pitying stares, which won’t go away, no matter how hard you throw yourself into your work.

“You’re working yourself into the ground.” Roger tells you a week later, watching the way your arms tremble as you focus a light, and it takes you a moment to blink blearily at him. “Don’t forget the security chain.” He adds, and you scowl, before looking at the light itself, and hurriedly affix the security chain to the rig. You insist that you’re fine, making your way down the ladder to scoop up another parcan, but you almost immediately drop it. 

“I just need some food.” You try to insist, your hands shaking as you leave the light where it is.

You don’t come out after shows, and it’s not gone unnoticed. The rest of the crew think you’re just dedicated, personable for the most part but prone to bouts of standoffishness.

“Oh you should have seen her on our first tour,” Freddie muses to an enraptured crowd at an afterparty, a few crew members listening with a bright-eyed attention, “that woman risked life and limb for our show.” And he sounds so proud when he says it, but something twists uncomfortably in Roger’s gut.

Cracks don’t show around other people, Roger’s noticed; you’re smile’s bright enough and your voice is loud enough that they don’t see the way your hands shake. Or how tired your eyes are. But then there are moments, you stand as if in the eye of the storm, gaff tape and drill in hand, watching as people follow your instructions without question, and you look up to see Roger tweaking his drums, and the two of you share a look. It’s a little indecipherable, he’s concerned and you’re just… tired. He wants to offer to help, but as soon as the moment arrives, it’s passed, and you’re off to the next task.

The air between the two of you has lost it’s angry tension; after saying your peace, after hearing his apology, there’s no fight left. Just a lingering disappointment, a quiet like the moment after a world-weary sigh. You don’t have to pretend around Roger, you both know he’d see through it if you’d tried.

“You should come get a drink after; you look like you need it.” Roger laughs, but there’s no humour in it. Without missing a beat, you decline, you don’t even bother coming up with an excuse. 

“I’m worried about you.” The tour is almost three weeks in, and you’re asleep against the proscenium arch when he walks in. You wake with a start at the sound of his voice, reaching out for the light you’d been fiddling with before you’d passed out. When you look to him with confusion, he repeats himself slowly. “I’m worried about you; are you sleeping okay?” 

“As if that’s any of your business.” You snapped back, and Roger kept quiet. It only takes him a day to figure out that sleep isn’t really a luxury you allowed yourself; you were the last out every night after bump out, sometimes staying until two in the morning, and from what the crew said, you were always the first up, running through check lists, accident reports, and going over anything that needed maintenance. 

When Freddie asks you to come out with them after a gig, you find it difficult to say no, he helped get you this job after all, but you’re there for barely half an hour before Roger sees you slip out the side door, drink untouched.

John asks if you’re okay one afternoon when you drop a stack of gel frames without warning, jumping almost a foot in the air and looking like you’re about to break into tears from shock, but seems content when you explain you’re just tired. Tired doesn’t even begin to cover how overworked you are.

The night you finally decide to relax a little, bump out having been miraculously fast, you’ve got the next day off. The others cheer you on as you down drink after drink, the alcohol hitting you hard and quickly, and the world gets blurry as you find yourself on the dance floor. It’s easy to drink too much, because for the first time in a long time, you’re relaxed, not worrying about the pretty, dickhead blonde who worries about you when he really shouldn’t. 

You’re drunk enough to admit to yourself that part of you likes the attention he’s giving you, it feels like vindication for the heartache you went through all those years ago. Part of it’s not even vindictive, part of you just likes the way he looks at you, the way his smile made your heart beat just a little faster; you call that part a fucking traitor and have another drink.

You don’t remember leaving the bar, but you come back to your body when you’re leaning against a streetlight for support, halfway through telling someone to fuck off.

“Ya’ not my  _caretaker_ ,  _Roger,”_ you sneer, “you don’t need to look after me or whatever this is. Go help groupies home or to hotel or whatever.” You spit, and push off from the light, turning on your heel, almost topple over, and right yourself.

“ _Light_ , that’s the wrong way.” He calls, exasperated, and you turn again, this time actually crashing to the ground and grazing your hand on the way, before you get to your feet. He’s come over to try and help you, but you swat him away.

“You don’t get to call me that.” You stalk ahead of him in the direction he had come from, back toward the hotel, and he follows only a few steps behind.

“Fine,  _Y/N;_ you’re legless, let me help.” And after a moment of intense eye contact, in which you try to weigh up your options, you begrudgingly loop your arm through his.

“You’re still on my shit-list.” You inform him, and he hums in acknowledgement. “Why are you doing this?” You follow it up with.

“I’m not the asshole who fucked you over three years ago, and I’m not gonna let you get yourself killed for this show.” He said through gritted teeth, and you just smiled, a little dreamily.

“But what a way to go.” And he came to an abrupt stop. It took you a moment to realise, and looking back, you tugged on his arm to keep him moving. He just frowned at you, a little concerned. “Fuck, I didn’t  _mean_ it.”

“If I have to fire you to get you to take a break-” He threatened, and you scoffed, expression turning bitter.

“I’ll drop a light on you.”

“You’ll drop a light on me by accident before then anyways!” He crowed, and your expression fell, contemplative. “Just let me help; what do I have to do to make you actually rest? What do I have to do to prove myself?”


End file.
